Broken Image
by Andriech
Summary: Two Captains. Two ships. Two crews. Two universes. And one war that could destroy them all - unless they can learn to see each other in a completely different way and learn to work together. When a Klingon ship from the mirror universe gets trapped all bets are off. Because in the universe where the Enterprise represents the evil Empire, the Klingons are the force of good.
1. Chapter 1

~Broken Image~

by Patty Wright and Elizabeth K. Love

Disclaimer:

WE DON'T OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM "Star Trek" - if we did, we'd be living there.

WE DO OWN ALL ORIGINAL CHARACTERS AND THE KAICAMDREAN UNIVERSE. PLEASE DON'T USE THEM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Author's Note:

This is the first of a trilogy of novels. It was the real first fanfiction I ever wrote, and you will find later concepts and characters being toyed with here.

It was revised and published first a couple years after "The Motion Picture" and before "The Wrath of Khan". To tell the truth, I think "The Undiscovered Country" wasn't as good as this much earlier treatment of the same delemma was. But that is just my opinion...you'll have to form your own. - Patty

CHAPTER ONE

The scoutship raced toward the asteroid belt with every ounce of power it had left. One engine pylon, charred by phaser burns and all but useless, still clung tenuously to the hull by a few circuits.

Veering unsteadily, the ship tried in desperation to hold its course. Its adversary was gaining far too fast. The star corsair bore down on its elusive prey and another phaser blast leapt out from the larger vessel. The blue bolt of light flashed across the distance, eagerly searching out its mark.

By some miracle, it missed, but only barely. Swerving sharply, the scout began weaving a precarious course through the asteroid belt. The hunter loomed behind it like a demonic shadow.

"Sir, priority message from Space Station Gamma IV: ion storm increasing above normal levels, progressing inward past quadrant boundaries."

The Captain nodded imperceptibly. With the damage the smaller ship had taken on, the storm might prove to be a blessing: a blessing they needed. The pirate had slipped through their clutches once too often to allow them the victory. And this time, the smuggled cargo hit too close to home for the Captain to accept defeat.

"Status on rogue vessel, Feran?"

"Heavy damage sustained on main impulse drive," the Science Officer answered, almost before the question had been finished. "Deflector shields down to minimum power. They've switched to auxiliary, Sir."

The Captain stood and stared at the viewscreen with arms crossed against her chest before turning and beginning to pace in front of the command chair. She was of average height and bore herself with a straightness that was the tell-tale sign of years of military training. The honey brown color of her skin had the look of a tan, and her dark brown hair swept back from her face and fell of its own accord in soft waves that curled haphazardly above her shoulders. Her russet eyes danced with easily read emotion and they alone betrayed the tautly controlled, quick temper of her youth. Though her eyes were a trifle too far apart, her nose too slender and her cheekbones too prominent to proclaim her extremely attractive, she had a power in her movements, something about her that transcended more conventional beauty.

She bore herself with an aura of command that impressed upon all that she well deserved her position. Her whole manner of carriage demanded respect, a respect that seemed to erase the awareness of the feminine curves of her body.

Her boots pressed the deck firmly as she paced. She was a pacer by nature, found pleasure in the silent communication between the ship and herself. Each step demanded answers of the ship and the ship of her. There was no indecision present in her pacing, instead there was a decisiveness that echoed the determination of a person who knew what to do, but had too much to accomplish all at once.

The Captain pivoted slowly in mid-stride and rested her hand on the back of the helmsman's chair as her eyes completed a quick sweep of the board. "Olir, change course to 0795 mark 2. Increase speed to Warp 10. I want a tractor beam on that ship. Lieutenant Kenar, get me ship to ship."

"Have them on the channel, Sir."

"Osrai, this is the Captain of the Kytaerin. Surrender your ship. This is your final warning."

Static cracked over the speaker as the well-known pirate responded bitterly: "I'll see you in hell first T'Shar!"

"Strange place for a rendezvous, Maret." The soft, even observation came out of nowhere.

The Captain turned and threw a warning glance at her second in command, who had stepped up beside the command chair. "Perhaps I'll send you instead, Tasha."

The Kainan shrugged in a luxurious movement of boredom. "Might be interesting."

"I'll be sure to provide you with ample opportunity," the Captain remarked, turning back to the screen. Amusement gleamed in her russet eyes, despite the fact her face remained set. Although Tasha's rank of Kainan afforded her almost all the privileges equal to that of a Captain, except for command, she was still subject to the Captain's orders. The Kytaerin was Maret T'Shar's ship. However, in this Kainan's case, that did not necessarily mean all orders found themselves obeyed.

A slight smile alit Tasha's silky tan features as she drifted back down to the science console. She paused, her hand resting lightly on the back of her chair and drew her eyes down to the Science Officer. The dark cloak fell over his shoulders lightly and moved with him as he worked. He was tall, slender and serious, and didn't turn from the viewer though he knew she stood behind him.

"Long range scans on the storm, Commander?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," Feran responded, already having known the question would be coming. "Storm now increased to magnitude +6. Showing definite signs of continuing increase."

"+6 and increasing?" She asked without particularly wanting an answer. "That's going to be quite a storm."

He nodded slightly before again adjusting the readings. "With all due respect Ma'am, it already is."

She frowned slightly in thought and sank into her chair beside him. "What did you say the position of the storm was?"

The Commander hesitated a moment and drew his eyes over to her slowly. He was the silent, aloof type of old world man that never said much, but noticed more than anyone cared to admit. He held that knowledge trapped within, deep where things no one wanted to know about him dwelt. He restrained a smile behind a facade of debonair wisdom, knowing full well the question came of more than scientific curiosity

"324 mark 8, Ma'am."

She nodded in acknowledgment and began to work with the instruments before her. He smiled, his pale blue eyes studying her before turning back to monitoring his own instruments. "Feran, have we established a tractor yet?"

"Negative, Captain. We're still out of range: only a few more seconds. Sir, their engines are reaching critical level."

"Give me a tractor now. I won't lose Osrai again."

"Yes, Sir."

The Captain turned as a spark of light flashed on the viewscreen. Suddenly, the three-sided screen filled with blazing white light as an explosion tore through the scoutship.

"Sekash!" T'Shar cursed in her native language. She had known this would be the way it would end all along. Practically, she could have expected nothing else. Osrai would never allow her the victory. "Commander?"

Feran shook his head. ";Completely destroyed, Sir."

"And the cargo?""

Also completely destroyed. Residue on all sensors."

"Sekash," T'Shar muttered again. That, above all, was the most painful. Osrai had had his revenge. "Lieutenant, inform Fleet Command of the status of the mission." She turned toward the dual science console. "Kainan Arikara..."

She froze as her eyes fell on the empty chair beside Feran. Though the First Officer had returned from a mission only hours ago, the Captain was not surprised to find her gone again. Tasha Kainear Arikara was a spy-perhaps the galaxy's best, and the position she held aboard the Star Corsair Kytaerin she considered little more than a hobby that helped cover her more fruitful activities.

The Kainan was gone again: gone without sound or perception of movement and that's the way it always was. That's why she never failed when it came to her career, why not even orders from commanding officers could tie her down.

Feran turned and held the Captain's gaze for a long moment. His pale blue eyes warmed in a shared thought of friendship and bemusement. Yes, the First Officer left often on important missions, but just as often there was no mission. She left because of her personality. The woman found it nearly unbearable to sit in one position unoccupied for more than a few seconds. The Captain's lips curled in a slight smile of satisfaction. Yes, of course, Tasha was gone, of course.

Feran," she asked quietly, "Has the Zyldshen left the ship yet?"

The Science Officer nodded. "Yes, Sir. Sensors read that the Kainan's ship has entered the storm zone." That was not unusual. Tasha moved quickly and was well out of reach before anyone realized she was gone.

"On present course, will the Kytaerin be going anywhere near the storm?"

"It does appear there is no way to avoid it. Chasing the scout has led us directly into it."

The ship rocked suddenly.

"Sir, we're in the Ion storm. Shall I change course?"

She swung toward the screen. "No, Olir, reduce speed to Warp 6. On my orders be prepared to halt and maintain position."

"Yes, Sir."

Tasha's hands danced over the controls of her ship in seemingly endless and incomprehensible movements. None of the equipment was labeled as a precautionary measure in case anyone got aboard the small vessel. They couldn't operate it without the labels and perhaps more importantly, they couldn't decipher what half the strange equipment was. She'd scavenged the equipment from one end of the galaxy to the other: modified some, stolen others, dug up and renovated extinct ones, and then finally created the ones she couldn't find. It had created a ship that could do everything she wanted it to, the way she wanted it to.

Now, that equipment was humming in excited activity as it vacuumed in information from the ion storm. Tasha coaxed and guided it along. At the moment, she wasn't particularly interested in ion storms, but the information would be useful for general scientific purposes and, besides, it had given her a chance to relieve her boredom with what Maret was doing.

The Captain sat down and leaned back in the command chair. She stared out at the First Officer's small scoutship on the screen.

"Well, my friend, you've really gotten yourself into this one, haven't you?" she thought deliberately. A permanent telepathic mind link could do much more than seal a friendship. At the very least, it could bypass the inconvenience of equipment and eliminate the awkwardness of public communication.

"So, you've gotten rid of Osrai," Tasha replied from within her mind. "Someone had to get this information while you were playing cat and mouse."

"Okay, you incompetent excuse for a science officer," Maret teased. "Stay out there and get the information from the storm, the Fleet will want it, and, I assure you, cat and mouse is purely a Terran game. I don't take kindly to Terran games."

Tasha laughed softly within her mind. The thought link was gone, but Maret could still feel her friend's presence drawing closer, Tasha's ship should now be within regular sensor range. The Kytaerin was still on the outer rim of the disturbance so that only Tasha's small ship, dead center of the storm, was getting the brunt of it.

The Captain glanced at the Helmsman. "Stop here, Olir. Maintain position." She turned back to Feran, who nodded slightly in confirmation.

"The Zyldshen is on our sensors, Captain; well within range"

"Lieutenant, open a hailing frequency."

"Yes, Sir."

"Tasha," the Captain directed through the intercom. "Channel the information into our computers."

"Distortion..." came the reply. "Not reading you clearly."

"Sir," Feran said heavily, "Storm increased to magnitude +9."

The sound of explosions burst through the intercom.

"Tasha! The storm's too violent. Return to the ship."

"KASHEERA! Only minor damage..."

"Sir, we're not receiving any information," Feran stated levelly. Although eccentric, Tasha was as brilliant as the ship's main Science Officer and the work they performed as a team was unparalleled.

"Tasha!"

There was no reply and in a burst of static, the communication link was gone. The Captain's mind groped out demandingly. "Tasha? Tasha!"

"I didn't think you really meant it when you said you were sending me to hell," came the soft reply within Maret's mind. "It's a Terran concept, but if this is anything like what they see as hell, I can understand their fear of it."

Suddenly, the thought link was gone too.

"Kenar! Get me ship to ship. " She slammed the intercom. "What the hell is going on out there, Tasha? Tasha! Clear that communications board, Lieutenant."

"I'm trying, Sir."

"Sir," Feran relayed quickly. "Magnetic interference increasing, ionic distortions +10 magnitude."

"Sir, I've got something on a low frequency." Kenar swung around. "It's Kainan Arikara."

"Tasha! What's going on out there?" T'Shar demanded.

"My ship's being destroyed by an ion storm. What the hell do you think is going on, Captain?"

"We're not receiving any data."

"That's because I'm not sending any," Tasha declared. "The distortion's too great."

"Captain T'Shar."

She turned swiftly as Commander Feran looked up from his viewer.

"Storm has increased to +11 magnitude, Sir."

T'Shar glanced at the panels. "Get back in here, Kainan."

The communications were getting worse. The First Officer's voice filtered in through heavy static. "Captain, I've got an object on my sensors."

"We'll investigate from here. Return to the ship," T'Shar ordered.

"No, you won't be able to get close enough with the Kytaerin for correct readings," Tasha countered.

The Captain tensed. Damn her...

"Maret!" Tasha suddenly exclaimed. "It's the _Enterprise_!"

T'Shar started. "The Enterprise?!" she questioned, her eyes narrowing. "What's she doing in this sector?"

"...don't know. I'm going in for a closer look."

"No!" T'Shar ordered. "Lieutenant Commander Avirra, arm phasers. Kainan get back in here." She trusted the Vulcan now commanding the Enterprise even less than she'd trusted Kirk. For what he lacked in ruthlessness, he made up in cold-blooded logic that was usually twice as deadly.

"Communications deteriorating," Tasha responded again. "Will investigate the ship."

"Storm increased to +12 magnitude," Feran reported.

"Sir, we have visual contact."

"Put it on the screen, Olir."

T'Shar swivelled in the command chair. "Lieutenant, get me the _Zyldshen_."

"I'm sorry, Captain, the channel is blocked."

T'Shar turned back to the viewscreen. "Communications deteriorating like hell," she muttered. The _Enterprise_ loomed on the screen, dwarfing Tasha's small scoutship racing toward it. "Damn her! She'll have her way if it kills her," T'Shar thought, studying the screen intently. Suddenly, the Enterprise winked from sight, taking the _Zyldshen_ with it.

"Commander?!"

"Unknown, Sir. They're both gone. I have a fix on their last known position," Feran answered, then added: "Storm has decreased to +4. Tolerable level, Sir."

The Captain drummed her fingers on the command console. "Keep scanning the area," she ordered. So, the Empire was back to playing follow the leader: a subtle shadow game to test out another remodified cloaking device perhaps, or did their new Captain have his own motives concerning this coincidental rendezvous? After a moments thought, she continued aloud. "Lieutenant, send a sub-light message to Fleet Command: attention Admiral Kailen Nosharra. Inform him of our present status and the developments of the past few minutes. Include automatic log tapes of the incident."

"Sub-light?" Kenar questioned, shocked. "But it'll take weeks to get there, Sir. Don't you mean...?"

"Sub-light," the Captain said evenly. "I meant sub-light, Lieutenant. Proceed as ordered."

Maret glanced sideways over at Feran, who was looking at her. Their eyes met for a brief instant before he smiled wryly in understanding and went back to work. No, she wasn't going to deal with the Admiral until it was more convenient.

Kirk resettled himself in his command chair uneasily.

"Storm increased to magnitude +12, force variance to force 3," Spock pronounced.

"Maintain position. All sensors on full power," the Captain said evenly, almost as if it were a thought out loud. He leaned forward and studied the viewscreen, gentle hazel eyes toying with the stars that had dared to challenge him. Osrai was gone, lost, and so was his cargo.

Space had taken that from Kirk, and now it dared to challenge his ship. Fool child that toyed with dynamite. The bridge was swarming with activity, but the Captain sat in solitude in the midst of it. He shifted impatiently. He had only just sat down, but sitting was not his way. He wanted to be up - to be moving. Kirk controlled his urge to resume pacing and stared fiercely at the raging tempest on the viewscreen. The Enterprise shuddered for an instant under the strain. The Captain also shuddered. They had gone through this together and together they'd tame the elements into submission.

As if in answer, the stars blurred and a large object appeared in the center of the screen. The image cleared for a moment, but disappeared just as quickly. It had been a Klingon battle cruiser. Kirk tensed.

"Storm decreased to +4, tolerable."

"Spock, sensor readings on that ship?"

Spock turned and viewed him quizzically. "Ship, Captain?"

"Yes, the one that was just on the viewscreen."

Spock shook his head. "Sensors record no man-made objects in the area."

Kirk nodded. "It was only there for a second, it could have been destroyed."

"No debris recording on the sensors, Captain."

McCoy smiled, resting his hand on the back of the command chair. "Maybe there's a ghost in the area, Jim."

Kirk glared at him icily.

"Captain."

"Mr. Chekov?"

"Sir, the ship appeared Klingoni in configuration. They could be using a cloaking device."

Kirk nodded. "Yes. The Defense team on Yellow Alert?"

"Yes, Sir." Chekov said, turning back to the equipment at his Security Station. After a moment, he turned back to Kirk. "Sir, the dynamic variance usually associated with the use of the cloaking device isn't there, as far as I can tell. Sensors still too distorted to be accurate."

Kirk's lips tightened into a fine line. New ship, new cloaking device, he mused. He glanced back as Ensign LeDuc strode onto the bridge.

After a moment's hesitation, the junior officer moved over to the defense and weapons station and Chekov, who stood up. The Ensign sat down uneasily, as if the chair was ill fitting and studied the elder man's face as he spoke.

Chekov's orders were brief and spoken softly. There was no need to impress the weight of his words upon the younger officer. The defense team was well trained, and even if you worked for the most likeable department head on the ship, you learned to detect the subtle changes that meant strict business.

"I don't want any heroes," Chekov concluded emphatically. "You detect one particle of space dust, one tenth of a decibel point in readings and you notify me immediately. Nothing is too unimportant to tell me about. I'll be touring the defense stations and then I'll be in the Security Lab. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," LeDuc replied sincerely.

Chekov nodded, but whispered as he turned. "Better safe than sorry, hmm?"

A smile swept over the younger man's face. "Yes, Sir. Those old Russian proverbs have a lot going for them."

Kirk bit back a smile, but his eyes had a gleam of mischief in them when they met Chekov' s. "Can you tell me anything more about the ship?"

"Yes, Sir," Chekov replied, daring playfully not to acknowledge that Kirk had overheard the younger man's tease. "It was built in Terran space dock 74-B, commissioned by Starfleet on Stardate 2224.6, Serial number: NCC 1701. Approximate overall length 288.646 meters, width 127.102 meters, beam 72.6 meters. Gross dead weight metric tonnage: 190,000. Approximately 35 years estimated endurance at light year velocity. Maximum safe cruising speed Warp Factor 8. Currently under command of Captain James T. Kirk. Anything else, Sir?"

Kirk remained motionless, his face frozen as he heard McCoy deteriorate into hearty laughter behind him.

"Bet he's been saving that one up for years," his soon-to-be ex-Chief Medical Officer snickered.

"Lieutenant," the Captain intoned evenly after a long moment. "Do you have any further information concerning the apparent Klingon Battle Cruiser that was 50 kilometers directly in front of us approximately 90 seconds ago?"

Chekov smiled easily. "Oh, that ship. No, Sir: not yet. We picked up a lot of distorted information. I'm going to the lab to try to sort some of it out."

"Good," Kirk said. "Let me know if you get anything."

Nodding, the Security Chief strode into the lift.

"Damage reports, Spock?" Kirk turned and addressed the non-emotional First Officer pointedly as unabated laughter continued to ripple through the bridge. Some things never change.

Scientists could say that space was a vacuum, void of sound, but anyone who had been in space for any amount of time knew that the eerie silence of its storms could be more deafening than any tornado. The ion storm had sunk backward to a small circle of space where it churned in contentment dying here, exploding into new activity there. It had been four hours since the incident and both ships rested on the rim of the small storm. On the bridges of their ships, Kirk and T'Shar sat staring at the viewscreen, wrapped in the cocoon of solitude command afforded while activity swarmed around them. They sat without thinking for a long while, just staring in appreciation for the deafening roar of the silent storm, the protective warmth of the ship, the lack of activity while all activity was directly related to them and for the very existence of the stars themselves.

After an eternal moment T'Shar sighed and shifted slightly, as though the movement would stir her thought processes. She wondered where Tasha was. It was a lazy, unconscious thought: half acknowledged and had no real meaning to it. The permanent, subtle mind link which the ritual of Kaishar established was still between them, so she knew the First Officer was alive, but beyond that, only the stars held the answers. Maret wasn't worried; it was useless to worry about Tasha. A spy is a spy is a spy. Whatever Tasha wrangled her way into she usually found pleasure in wrangling her way out of and worrying wasn't going to increase the spy's chances of success. Over the years she'd learned that Tasha Kainear had a way of taking care of herself.

Still, Maret wondered: she couldn't help it. It was possible that Tasha had been captured and, spurred on by that thought, the Captain considered turning to give Feran an order. She didn't, however, because she knew he'd have already carried it out. Anyone consulting the computer records would find no trace of Kainan Tasha Kainear Arikara. That day would come, T'Shar knew. The day when Tasha couldn't wrangle her way out and the Captain would be called upon to deny her closest friend.

She tried, as she had a hundred times over, to picture herself sitting there, staring openly into the person's face on the screen and calmly saying that she did not know, had never even heard of Tasha Kainear. There was no such person in the Fleet, no such person connected to the Federation.

No, she could not see herself doing it now. Not this time. Yet, Maret T'Shar knew she would, and could plainly picture herself doing it in the future. When the time came she perform the task unemotionally:deliver the speech flatly, coldly, without even a thought. It would simply be another activity of command that day. It would not be until much later that she would consider the consequences of betraying her First Officer and compatriot. Not until the last moments of waking would she wonder what type of execution it had been and what had been done with the remains of the body, if there were any. Her friend would sever the mind link before could was how a spy's job was expected to end. How it always ended finally. No matter how necessary it remained, being a spy was a thankless job. Success, and no one notices: failure and you disappear.

T'Shar shuddered angrily at herself.

Yes, Kasheera, yes! She would do it with calculating coldness. What was she?

A Kyelar: a Captain.

And what was a Captain - someone bound by duty to hand your best friend over willingly for execution? Yes, something answered from within her, at times it came with the job.

What was she becoming?

Her stomach wrenched as her mind turned back to a memory from the past: Captain James T, Kirk of the I.S.S. Enterprise. The hatred welled up, still so strong she could almost feel it as a tangible she turning into a Kirk? Was there really any difference in people or were they all the same miserable entities just playing useless charades with themselves?

Kirk finally shifted his gaze away from the screen, emerged from the silent cocoon of thought and let his mind probe the activities around him. A movement at the defense and weapons station caught his eye, and he shifted his eyes to watch, still absorbed in the isolation of his own thought.

The Chief of Security, approaching the station, waved the Ensign back into the chair he was just about to vacate. Chekov leaned over the younger officer's shoulder and deftly moved a control. The readout screen altered significantly, displaying a quarter-section grid. Trying to comprehend through his self-conscious nervousness, the Ensign frowned in energetic concentration as Chekov ran through a detailed explanation.

Kirk leaned back further in the command chair, his eyes fixed on Chekov's form. The image of the Security Chief wavered as the stance, the movements, the seriousness and even the facial expressions penetrated through Kirk. For a split second of blood-chilling realization, the image of Lieutenant James T. Kirk of the Farragut stood there. The image brought back memories of long forgotten conversations, friends, orders.

Straightening slightly, Kirk drew a long breath to settle his flaring defense mechanisms. Yes, he admitted with sudden, fierce clarity, Chekov was very much like himself. It was something the Captain had been admitting gradually over the years. Long ago, he had ignored and rationalized the similarities. The impetuousness and the naive, energetic determination of the young Ensign Chekov he had respected and admired from the beginning. In those days, however, Kirk had silently marveled at how much like Andrie Chekov his Chief Navigator was. It wasn't a conscious comparison, of course, Kirk did not give any credence to anyone's family background: but it was something he had noticed. Chekov had a lot of his father in him.

Now, Chekov's impetuous nature lay concealed beneath an aura of self-certainty and command. The Ensign that Kirk had coached and respected for his honesty and determination had refined, matured and perhaps mellowed-and yet, he hadn't really changed at all.

Only now did the realization surface that he'd been seeing himself all along: the same impetuous nature, the stubbornness, the mistakes, the trivial jokes, all replayed. Kirk sat watching himself in the past, and he almost laughed at himself. Now, he openly compared Chekov to himself and rarely noticed his father's qualities in him. It was the way society worked. The less others see you as walking in the shadow of another person, the more you actually do walk in the shadow of that person. The Lieutenant was the image of his father, yet it was rare that anyone noticed.

Kirk continued to watch Chekov, thinking about the light friendship that had grown between them. He liked to think it was because he had discovered Chekov's hidden secret, guarded so well Sulu was the only other person aboard who knew it, and he really didn't count because he was Chekov's closest friend. But that wasn't the reason of course: it was because Kirk had subconsciously seen himself in Chekov.

Suddenly, Kirk smiled slightly and turned back toward the screen. Yes, they were alike. He'd seen the potential ability in the Ensign and saw it even more so now. Chekov, like Kirk, was going to make a great Captain and somehow Kirk realized he wouldn't be surprised if Chekov would be considered the best in the Fleet. Well, almost the best. Yes, Chekov would make a great Captain like Kirk.

Kirk did a sudden, quick double take and stared at Chekov. A 'great' Captain? What was a great Captain? What made people single himself, James Kirk, above the rest? He continued to stare at Chekov, now, remembering the Ensign that had been, knowing suddenly haw much change had taken place and how much more would occur before Chekov reached the position Kirk held now.

Was it worth it? Kirk demanded of himself. Is it worth it?

He swung his hazel eyes back to the screen and shifted his position. What had happened to the Klingon ship? he wondered in sudden anger. What was it out there that he didn't know about?


	2. Chapter 2

-CHAPTER 2-

Tasha leaned back and let the ship drift into the turn on its own. There was no danger: her ship had a cloaking device the _Enterprise_ could not yet read through. So, she circled the ship again at a slow, luxurious pace, letting her breath seep out in a measured sigh that was somewhat of admiration.

It was glorious. She shown as if with a glow of proud awakening and birth. The bathed white hull was sleek and streamlined and she spread herself upon the star-dusted skies like an albatross lifting upward, swelling upon the wind. Amused at herself, a glistening smile swept across Tasha's tan features. This ship she almost felt as much as her own. But the name _Enterprise_ emblazoned across her hull was a disgusting blot, and it was still more revolting to think that Spock commanded her. She didn't deserve such a fate. A cold shiver ran through Tasha as she thought of Spock.

She had little motivation to ever see the man again, and had it not been for the ship...It was totally renovated and she found it hard to believe this was the same ship she had left such a short time ago. Either the Captain had purposefully avoided telling her that they were building a new ship or he had blatantly lied to her about his new commodity. Lied and conceiled it, because she'd have known.

"Damn him." She might be returning to his ship, but it was on her terms. She'd know everything there was to know about it long before she went anywhere near him.

Slowly, she swung her attention back to the controls and turned the ship easily alongside the larger vessel. She looked out into the blackness of space. Yes, she was ready to meet Spock again. This would be the battle of the century. And where had Maret disappeared to? It didn't matter, she thought, swinging her chair around and striding into the other room. She ran her fingers over the controls, scanning the other ship, Deck 12, it was empty: no life forms. She located a suitable spot and set the panel on standby. Glancing around the controls quickly, she made a slight mental nod of satisfaction. All was in order: her repairs were holding well. Flicking the release switch, she swung into the transporter. There was a slight swish and a moment later, she was standing in the corridor aboard the _Enterprise_.

Chekov leaned back, staring at the computer readout screen, and swore softly as if it were listening. He repunched the buttons once again. Static flashed across the screen before the same readout appeared. "INCOMPLETE DATA...INCOMPLETE DATA...READINGS DO NOT COMPUTE."

He sighed and pushed himself out of the chair. So much for automatic tie-ins.

"If you need me," he said to the technician as he left, "I'll be at the instrument panel on Deck 12."

She nodded and went back to work.

Taking a brief inventory of her surroundings, Tasha slipped out her communicator and activated the hidden panel on it. She triggered the homing beacon on her ship, then slid the communication device back into place on her sash.

Chekov sighed luxuriously as he strode down the halls of the empty deck. The computer malfunctioning and refusing to pick up the readings off the instruments did have its advantages after all. It was a pleasure to walk alone through the silent ship.

He swung leisurely around the corner, but froze suddenly as the woman turned. Their eyes met for a long moment before she turned and disappeared into a cabin.

She listened in silence as the door slid shut behind her. She hoped, in vain, that he wouldn't follow, but knew inevitably that he would. Leaning against the wall in the cabin, she let her breath out uneasily and dropped her hand from the badge on her sash which activated her cloaking web. That had been much too close; she'd have to be far more careful. Close calls could easily mean death. This was not going to be the fifth rape attempt on the part of Lieutenant Commander Chekov, not if she could help it.

Chekov hesitated for a split second, his hand starting for the phaser his mind had already told him was not there. He should have carried a weapon because he was Chief of Security, but he chose not to. He'd never admit it to himself, but he made up for it in the way he bore himself. It took more skill to face an opponent and reason with him unarmed than it did to fall back on the crutch of a weapon, and Chekov felt there was little danger. Even trained spies found it innately revolting to shoot an unarmed person, and if the situation was anticipated, he always had one of his men nearby. Chekov enjoyed utilizing every ounce of skill he had and, in the end, it gave him that extra measure of self confidence that was known as courage.

Whoever the woman had been, she had disappeared without further trace of being. He made his way down the hall as cautiously and noiselessly as possible. Pausing every few seconds to listen to the eerie silence, he wondered if he was foolishly chasing phantoms. It wasn't unusual, after all, for people to dart out of sight on this deck and it was quite possible that he simply hadn't met a new crewmember yet. The outfit she was wearing was unique, but no one could have been familiar with the possible range of native dress 430 crewmen could come up with and on this deck, he thought wryly, anything was possible. Yet, the whole argument seemed to grate on his nerves, almost childishly, he thought. He should have-no-he would have been informed of a new crewmember. He was the Chief of Security and should have personally given permission for anyone to come aboard.

He only hesitated a moment before punching the door open. He stiffened, half expecting an embarrassing confrontation. The room that greeted him was dark and empty, however. He relaxed in noticeable relief.

Tasha deftly stepped aside as he passed her again. He'd made an exhaustive search of the cabin, not only for her presence, but for clues indicative of both her presence and any and all possible avenues of escape. There, of course, were none, and she took the opportunity to study him.

She was openly impressed by his thoroughness. It was his very thoroughness, however, that made her uneasy. It was the only trait that seemed characteristic. His uniform, the missing air of haughtiness, his very movements were different. Something was definitely wrong.

He glanced one last time around the cabin and left with determined strides. This time, the corner was taken at full speed, but he stopped abruptly again at the feminine gasp.

Chekov straightened slightly, trying not to laugh at the situation. The Ensign had only graduated from the Academy a month ago and still had an awe-struck, wide-eyed response to superiors, and that in itself was funny since his immediate superior-Chekov-was a full foot shorter than he. Yet, the senior officer stood there watching the Ensign's face slowly turn crimson.

"Good-afternoon-Sir," he finally managed to choke out.

Chekov smiled slightly. "I'm sorry to change that. Report immediately to the Defense Lab and tell Nordel to declare a Yellow Alert and to assemble the entire team."

Finnegan seemed to have turned to stone for a long moment before he spoke. "But, Sir, I'm off duty."

"Not any more."

Chekov strode past the two, but turned, knowing the thought that must be on their minds. "I have no authority over your personal life and if I did, I'd have no right to make value judgments concerning it. Your personal life is yours-after the Yellow Alert."

He started to turn again, but Gillain's voice stopped him.

"Sir! I hope you don't think that..."

Chekov shook his head. "I don't think anything Yeoman, I don't have the time."

The Defense Team was assembled in what seemed like just minutes. They barely had time for the light banter and theories of curiosity before Chekov strode into the lab.

Latching his hand onto the back of a chair, he swung it around and planted a foot on the seat so that he could lean forward as he addressed the team. His dark eyes swung around the faces gathered. "This team is on Yellow Alert. Nordel, I want five groups to conduct a priority one search on Deck 12."

There was a surprised and unified uneasy shift.

"Deck 12, Sir? But..."

"Deck 12," Chekov repeated evenly. "Normal and Yellow Alert stations will be maintained until I specify otherwise. I want a report of anything suspicious, is that understood?"

"But, Sir," Finnegan protested. "Our new security system is impermiable! We'd know if there were an intruder."

Chekov opened his eyes wider in slight interest. "The second law of security: For every system that is purportedly impermiable, there is one entity which can penetrate it with relative ease."

"What's the first law, Sir?" The young officer bit his lip. He hadn't really intended to ask the question. He had blurted it out foolishly out of simple curiosity.

The Chief of Security smiled ever so slightly, his eyes darkening. He didn't seem to notice the fresh edge the Ensign was so afraid was in his voice.

"The first law of security is that the amount of impermeance claimed by any particular security system is directly proportional to the irresistible challenge that same system presents to any entity told that they can't break it."

Chekov dropped his foot off the chair and, with a nod of dismissal, turned to leave. The team began to stretch and shuffle position, but the Second's voice sliced through the unnecessary noise.

"Sir, are you going to tell us what we're looking for?"

Chekov hesitated at the door long enough to glance back at the team. "No." he said flatly, and strode out.

Finnegan laughed with relief. "Then that means its just a drill!"

Nordel's laugh had a soft, evil tone to it. "No, it means no and we'd better find whatever it is. C'mon, get off your duffs. You heard the Chief's orders: whoever finds it gets a new feather in his war bonnet."

Outside the room, Sulu pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against waiting for Chekov.

"Pav!"

Chekov pivoted slowly and fixed the approaching man with an evil glare.

"Don't call me that," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Okay," Sulu shrugged. "Andriech."

Chekov closed his eyes briefly in exasperation before confronting Sulu again. "Timothy, do you remember when we first met? I was seventeen and you were my big brother at the Academy?"

"I may forget," Sulu smiled, "but the Academy never will."

"We have been best friends since that time. I am now twenty-eight. I would think by now you would have realized that I don't like nicknames. My name is Pavel Andreivich."

Sulu stopped him with his hand and with great exaggeration bellowed: "If my parents had wanted me called Pav, they would have named me Pav!"

The gleam of mock anger in Chekov's eyes seemed slightly unnerved that Sulu had finished the punch line to one of his most effective speaches.

"Yes," he responded simply. "When are you going to realize that I don't like being called Pav?"

"Probably," Sulu chided. "the same day you realize that I don't like being called Timothy!"

The argument was useless, since it'd been resolved years before. Sulu had become used to, even fond of, being called Timothy instead of Tim and Chekov was always Pavel unless Sulu felt like teasing him.

"Was there some purpose to this conversation?" Chekov asked.

"Yes. Are you going to eat or are you working through again?"

"Working through. Don't shake your head like that, you look like my mother."

"Thank you for the compliment. or haven't you noticed-I'm in love with your mother?"

"I noticed. So is my father."

"He can be gotten rid of."

"Really?" Chekov asked with a delighted smile. He poked a finger at Sulu. "Well, if you know how you'd better keep it quiet. There are plenty of people who would pay a bundle for the method."

"I know," Sulu nodded. "Speaking of whom, have you seen him lately?"

"Who?"

"Whom."

"Who?"

"No, Whom."

Chekov refused to answer, knowing Sulu could drag it on forever.

"Your father. Have you seen your father lately?"

If he hadn't known Sulu, Chekov might have had an unconscious fear that he'd heard unpleasant news. The warm sparkle of friendship in his eyes clearly transmitted something else, though Chekov wasn't sure what.

"No. You know that. You were with me the last time I saw him."

"Oh really?" Sulu smiled. He glanced pointedly at the defense lab Chekov had just emerged from, then at Chekov's face. "Why don't you try taking a look in the mirror?" he asked before striding off.

The stars still glowed dully from the aftermath of the ion storm, their silver light hazily reflected on the viewscreen. T'Shar pivoted slowly, her eyes shifting away from the three-sided screen as she resumed her restless pacing. She was in no mood to go chasing her second in command or attempting an explanation of her rather sudden disappearance to the Fleet. Not this time. She glanced up at the silent panorama of stars, cursing softly.

Kasheera! Tasha had just returned from a four week mission that still remained veiled in secrecy. Through the link T'Shar had sensed the utter exhaustion surrounding the Kainan. No matter what Tasha insisted, that mission had drained her far more than she was willing to admit. Now, she was gone again.

'Shari, Tasha; take care' she sent through the Kaishar mind link, to receive no response: not even a snide remark. She stopped pacing, concern and confusion mirrored in her eyes. The mind link between them was still there, but faint, stretched over an unexplainable distance.

"She can take care of herself," Feran said softly from beside her.

"I know, but I worry about my friends," T'Shar replied.

Feran's hand slid onto her shoulder. "So do I," he said quietly. "You haven't eaten yet."

She turned to him, smiling. "No, I haven't. You have the Con."

He slid into the relinquished chair.

"I'll be eating in my 'library', if you need me."

The Commander nodded in understanding. "Take your time."

T'Shar strode into her cabin and activated the lever in the bookcase, which swung open into the alcove. The secret alcove between her quarters and Tasha's was known only to an elite few. It was a place they could both retreat to away from the tensions of command. A place to share and enjoy their friendship.

T'Shar wandered over to the table and glanced down at it. A game of Kaicamdrean Solitaire lay there, waiting for the players to return. It had been started four weeks ago: four weeks. The challengers would play solitaire facing one another until one of them won, and that wasn't easy. Kaicamdrean Solitaire was a difficult, complex game that one had to use all thought to win, and even then fate could play against you.

T'Shar studied Tasha's cards. Nearly all the playing cards were placed, and the trev required one remaining card before it was closed out. The Zyldshen lay face down in the center. The card of fate: of life or death. One could fight an excellent battle and win, but the Zyldshen held the ultimate fate. When turned at last, it could defeat. In one fell swoop, it destroyed everything won in the battle, or it could triumph: add glory to a well played victory.

Gingerly, T'Shar reached out to the center of the board, her fingers resting tentatively upon the corner of the card. She hesitated, temptation and curiosity willing her to turn it. With casual abruptness she drew her hand back leaving it unturned. She smiled slightly, glancing momentarily at her own cards before returning her eyes to Tasha's Zyldshen. Undoubtedly it had triumphed, as always. To her knowledge, the Kainan had never lost at Kaicamdrean Solitaire. An uneasy disquiet accompanied that thought, but she brushed it aside, unexplored.

She glanced again at her own cards, but decided to let them be and sat down on the couch. The events of the past few hours drifted through her mind. The _Enterprise_, the ion storm, the _Zyldshen's_ disappearance...somewhere there was a tie in. A faint memory tugged at the back of her mind. It had been an event that had occurred several years ago, concerning a part of one of Tasha's former missions. Kirk had been involved in that one, but how?

She got up abruptly and began pacing the length of the room. Why was it so familiar? What had Tasha said while trying to explain it to Feran...an ion storm over the maximum force variance could create a fission in the double alternate effect-a door in the Mirror. T'Shar stopped short, staring out the viewing port.

"A door to a Mirror Universe," she muttered softly to the silent room.

It had happened then and, if she remembered correctly, that storm had been only half the magnitude of this one. Had it happened again? A Mirror Universe and Tasha was in it somewhere, along with the _Enterprise_. If she was right, it was definately out there and the door should still be open. Without hesitation, T'Shar strode out into her cabin, through the main doors and headed for the bridge.

He paused at the door and pressed the buzzer.

"Come."

Kirk glanced up momentarily as Chekov strode in. He smiled. "Pavel, sit down. I'll be with you in a minute."

As he glanced down at the papers again, Kirk's gaze caught a brief image of Chekov's eyes. He realized again how when he studied Chekov as an up and coming officer, he sometimes overlooked the light sparkle and charm of youth that still lingered with him. Chekov still had leeway to be impetuous: to have sword fights with Sulu and play practical jokes. It was something Kirk envied to a degree.

The younger man smiled as he sank into the chair across from him. "Looks like fun. Fleet reports?"

Kirk nodded, and marking his place, leaned back in the chair. "Would you like to proof read them for me?"

"I'm honored that you asked me," Chekov insisted. "But I'm not worthy enough to proof read a Captain's reports."

Kirk frowned. "How would you like a week of K.P.?"

Chekov smiled again. "Not really, I've got my own reports to do."

Kirk turned to the shelf behind him, but glanced back at Chekov ."Are you on duty?"` "No."

"Then would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," Chekov said as Kirk turned back. "I'm going on in a half hour."

Kirk nodded in silence, and let his eyes drift over the Lieutenant's slim form critically. There was hardly anything to be critical about, he looked no different than usual, but, deep in thought, Kirk looked concerned about something he had apparently noticed.

He frowned slightly. "You've been working awfully hard lately," he commented. "You should take some time to relax: go to the gym and work out or something."

Chekov glanced up and met Kirk's gaze with a blank stare of non-emotion. He'd heard the suggestion a dozen times over and was becoming sensative to being the object of the ship's lottery.

"So," he drew out with a tone of bitter sarcasem. "How much do you have riding on me?"

Kirk raised his eyebrows in a look of pure innocence, but his gaze darkened in warning. "Half my pay, so you'd better win."

"Half your pay?!" Chekov exchoed shocked. "What are you..." his voice trailed off in sudden realization of whom he was addressing. Shifting slightly, he echoed the same though in more polite words. "Captain, you shouldn't gamble like that."

"Why?" Kirk shrugged, with the same innocent look. "Are you planning to lose?"

Chekov shook his head helplessly. Even his eyes showed that he had given in to Kirk's line of reaosning. "No, I haven't lost yet."

"I've always admired your modesty," Kirk marveled with a glint in his eyes. "But seriously, Banner's been practicing five hours a day getting ready for the Ship Olympics. I haven't..."

"Captain," Chekov interrupted. "If one more person tells me to go practice I'm going to drop out, I swear."

"Banner's pretty stiff..." Kirk's voice trailed off when Chekov muttered a comment about Banner in Russian.

"You'd better watch it or I'm going to transfer him to security so you`ll have to learn how to get along with your fellow officers." It wasn't that Kirk particularly liked Banner, because he didn't, but he felt it was his duty at that moment to promote tolerance for other people.

Chekov responded with a dirty look that Kirk though was hysterical. The junior officer would have liked to say something to add to the look, but didn't.

There was a long moment of silence before Chekov spoke again. "Captain," he said in explanation. "I like sword fighting. I do it for fun and I practice when I feel like it. I enjoy it. I'm not going to practice so much it becomes tedious, because then I won't have anything I enjoy anymore."

Kirk nodded silently, then looked at him curiously. "I've always wondered what you do with all your gold medals?"

"I eat them."

"Eat them?!"

"They are chocolate, Captain. I saved the first one and it melted all over my drawer."

"I see your point," Kirk nodded, but then smiled suddenly. "So, that's what Sulu's always refering to when he talks about chocolate underwear."

Chekov smiled. "Yes."

There was a familiar sparkle in the Lieutenant's eyes that Kirk leaned back and smiled enthusiastically at. "Well, well, well," he drew out. "You've got something to tell me."

"No," Chekov said straight faced. "I came here because the chairs are more comfortable."

"Smart-ass."

"579D subsection 18J. Vulgar language to crew and junior officers," Chekov said sarcastically.

"643B subsection 23D. Sarcasm to Superior Officers," Kirk smiled.

"901A subsection 12B," Chekov spat out. "Willfully obstructing the duties and interfering with the morals of fellow or Junior Officers or crew."

Kirk stared at him for a moment.

Chekov smiled smugly and leaned back. "Time's up. You're slowing down in your old age."

"1023 subsection 31A," Kirk spat back emphatically. "Insulting a Superior Officer."

"There's no such regulation!" Chekov challenged.

"There is now," Kirk said. "You didn't read last weeks bulletin. Regulation 1023 subsection 31A was signed into effect by Starfleet Council last month."

Chekov sank into the chair and frowned. "That's the most ridiculous regulation I've ever heard."

Kirk nodded, a sparkle in his eyes. "How about 427B subsection 39C?"

Chekov shifted uncomfortably under the Captain's gaze. "I know, but I've been busy. I didn't have time to read the Starfleet bulletin. Didn't look interesting anyway," he muttered.

"It wasn't," Kirk smiled. "Just read it this morning. So," he continued. "What've you got?" Chekov pushed the tape into the console. "Captain, do you remember the ion storm of Stardate 5327.04?"1

Kirk's eyebrows raised with interest and he nodded a definate yes. "The Mirror Universe." "Yes, Sir." Chekov paused. This was going to be hard to explain. "Captain, this is only a theory, but..."

"But?" Kirk prompted.

"Sir, I don't believe the ship we encountered was moving; I believe we were."

Kirk blinked, then studied Chekov. "We?"

"Yes, Sir," Chekov replied. "I believe we went into the Mirror universe."

Kirk sat forward abruptly, the chair legs he had been leaning back on dropping to the floor with a crash. "Mister Chekov," he demanded, but paused to let the words be assimilated by his own mind. "Are you trying to say that we found a DOOR to the Mirror Universe and that we actually passed through it?"

"Yes,Sir," Chekov replied.

It was a simple reply to an astounding question with limitless possibilities. Kirk leaned back again slowly, his eyes marveling at the novel situation. "A door," he repeated quietly to himself.

Turning back to Chekov, he motioned that he go on and present his evidence. As the Lieutenant leaned forward and pressed on the tape, the stars during the ion storm appeared on the screen. He advanced the tape in slow motion. When the stars began to dim, he stopped the tape.

"Here, Captain, we encountered the door." Kirk's eyes were frozen on the screen, deep in thought, as Chekov advanced the tape again. The stars became almost a blur.

"Where we went through it."

Then suddenly, the stars cleared. Chekov stopped the tape."And when we came through to the other side. There's the ship."

Kirk nodded. "Yes."

"Captain," Chekov began. "everything in the universe must have a counterpart."

Kirk glanced over at him with a frown of interest.

"What I mean, Sir, is that you can not experience soft without first having experienced hard. There can't be cold without hot, no black without white, no kindness without cruelty." Chekov's voice was becoming emphatic. "In the simplest terms we are good and the Klingon's, evil. If I am to understand your information from the Mirror Universe correctly, the Federation in that universe was evil."

"Yes," Kirk answered, realizing what Chekov's point was going to be.

"Captain, they must have a counterpart. It is probably that the Klingons in that universe are good."

"Yes," Kirk nodded. "The Empire did have enemies. And if the Klingons weren't good-so to say-there would have been nothing to balance them out and the universe couldn't have survived." Kirk glanced at the screen again. "That ship looks like a Klingon ship, so..." he drew out in thought, "what we encountered may have been the Klingon's counterpart in the Mirror Universe."

Chekov nodded. "From the information I can get, this ship is one step above the Klingon's in technology, and they may be our allies."

Kirk studied the screen in silence.

"Captain," Chekov continued after a moment. "There's one more thing." He pressed the controls, moving the tape so that the ship was no longer in the center of the screen, but in the upper right hand corner. In the lower left was a smaller ship. Chekov pointed ot it. "A small scoutship moving toward us fast. Technologically advanced, it's large enough for two people. Readings show one humanoid aboard. Captain, watch this closely."

He started the tape again. After a second, the stars dimmed amd just as they cleared, Chekov stopped the tape. "Here we came through the door into our own universe."

Kirk sat up abruptly and pointed at a blur in the lower left hand corner. "That's the scoutship."

"That's what I thought, Captain." It followed us back into our universe."

"What happened to it?" Kirk demanded.

Chekov shook his head. He began the tape. Before he moved his finger from the button, the blur disappeared. "Readings show the ship took heavy damage. Probably destroyed."

Kirk leaned back again with a frown. 'Probably'-he didn't like that word, not in this situation.

Noticing the frown, Chekov shrugged slightly. "It's all just a theory, Sir."

"But the computer confirmed that it was a possibility in these circumstances?"

"Yes, Sir."

Kirk nodded, then glanced at the Lieutenant knowingly. "There's something else..."

"Yes, Sir," Chekov admitted. "I was on Deck 12 this morning..."

Kirk raised his eyebrows in delight and suddenly interrupted him. "What were YOU doing on Deck 12?"

Chekov smiled snidely in response to the sparkle in Kirk's eyes and said something gutteral in Russian.

Because of the tone of Chekov's voice and the expression on his face, Kirk didn't need a translation, and wasn't at all sure he ever wanted one. He understood the basic gist of it.

Chekov interrupted what Kirk was going to say with a Holier-than-Thou tone. "Captain, I'm an officer. Deck 12 is the haven for Ensigns and crewmembers. Besides," he added, "I've got a private cabin, what would I need to go there for?"

Rubbing his temples with a hand, Kirk tried to suppress a smile. "I don't know. What was the point?"

"Well, while I was there I think I saw a woman who wasn't one of the crew."

Kirk shook his head. "We don't have any passengers or guest on board."

"I know," Chekov replied flatly. "I don't think she belongs on board."

Kirk studied Chekov for a moment." Are you trying to say we have an intruder, Mister Chekov?"

Chekov sighed uneasily. "I believe so, Sir."

"The intruder alert alarms should have gone off."

"Yes, Sir." Then, before Kirk could ask, "We've checked them. They're in perfect working order and haven't been tampered with."

Kirk held up his hand more to slow down his own though processes than to stop Chekov. His mind was racing too fast, making connections that could cause serious and embarassing mistakes.

"Step by step. When did you see her?"

"About eleven. The lab computer wasn't picking up the readings so I went down to copy them. I had just turned into the corridor and there she was."

"What was she doing?"

"I don't know. I only got a glimpse of her. She ducked into a cabin when she saw me."

"That's not unusual behavior for Deck 12, Chekov," Kirk insisted.

"I didn't say it was!" Chekov retorted, but stopped abruptly and lowered his eyes in an attempt to gain control of the angry edge that had crept into his voice.

"It's okay," Kirk nodded. "this is a pretty nasty situation."

"Captain," Chekov said evenly as he looked up at Kirk again. "She does not belong on this ship. She has BLACK eyes and though it was totally unfamiliar to me, I swear she had some kind of uniform on. It was a long black vest trimmed with silver, grey breeches and black boots with a powder blue shirt. There was a silver sash around her waist that hung down to her left knee with a dagger on it and what may have been a gun in the back. And there was a black and silver insignia on the left of the vest."

Kirk shook his head, lost in thought. "Nothing I've ever seen."

"Captain," Chekov said, "She-she looked like a pirate."

Kirk studied him for a moment. "A pirate? A pirate renovated Klingon ship? They won't like that." He sank back into deep, silent thought. there were so many possibilities, so much at stake, and nothing really tangible to latch onto.

"You say you only got a glimpse of her?"

"Yes, Sir. I looked for her, but she vanished. The Defense Team is still on Yellow Alert and I had them make a through search of Deck 12."

Kirk laughed delightedly at the though. "I'm sorry, but the empty emergency cabins on Deck 12 do have the reputation of being the Peyton Place of the ship. It must have been an interesting search."

A smile swept over Chekov's face. "Yes, from the looks on some of their faces I'd say they found a few things they weren't counting on."

"I'd say," Kirk echoed, then nodded to him. "Check those alarms again, and keep the team on Yellow Alert. A glimpse..." his voice trailed off, but he didn't need to complete it. A glimpse wasn't much to go on.

"Yes, Sir," Chekov responded.

Kirk nodded, thoughtfully, then added. "Thank you."

"Of course, Sir. Captain, may I be dismissed? I'm late for duty."

Kirk smiled. "Yes. 6010 subsection 13D: Tardiness."

Chekov shot a glare at Kirk as he left, but the Captain only shook his head and remained in his pensive position. After a long moment, he pushed himself up and paced to the viewing port, hands clasped behind his back.

A possible door to the Mirror Universe, and a possible intruder. The first situation was probably past, the second probably never present. It had only been a glimpse. Chekov was tired, under stress, and on Deck 12-well, just about anything was possible.

His common sense assured him the situation offered no problems. The door had occurred and was gone, and the woman was a crewmember affected by an active imagination.

Yet, somehow, his intuition fought his common sense every inch of the way. Down deep in his gut, he couldn't rest easy. And what was more, there was still something Chekov had not told him about the woman, something he was keeping to himself. A possible door and a possible intruder-Damn, he hoped his common sense was right.

Sulu sighed heavily and pushed the controls in a circle before gazing into the viewer again. After a moment, he scribbled an unintelligible note on the clipboard beside him.

He hesitated suddenly, he pen freezing in mid-air as he jerked up his head. He sat absolutely motionless for an eternal moment, listening as the eerie silence echoed and reverberated around him. It froze every nerve within him and set the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. With infinite care, he placed the pen gently on the desk and reached slowly until his hand grasped the leather hilt of the fencing foil leaning by him. He rose to his feet and moved stealthily through the connecting doors of his work area and into the lab.

The solemn heaviness that hung in the air sent a familiar shudder running up his spine. He silently passed Gertrude, noting the soft whimpering issuing from the plant. 'Somebody' was definitely in the lab. Dropping down to a squat position, he began to move forward with calcualted steps. The tenseness fairly cracked the air. He tightened his grip and extended the foil before him. The three feet of steel gleamed dully in the light.

His opponent stood frozen behind the shrub. Staring through the leafy greenery, he judged the distance with a practiced eye. His quarry had come out of its secluded hole and advanced warily, but had oddly passed out of his vision. It didn't matter, since the intended prey would no doubt follow a prescheduled path. In a few seconds he'd launch the attack.

Sulu edged his way around another bush, swatting gently at the questioning tentacles that drew back, recognizing their benefactor. There were only two possible positions for the intruder-he decided on the one farther to the right: the least likely, but the most probable. Without hesitation, he moved across the remaining few feet.

There was a sudden movement and a swish as metal sliced the air above his head. A sly smile alit Sulu's face as the war cry trailed off and his foil plunged at the Chief of Security.

"Surrender, or thou shalt never have children!"

Chekov reeled backward, gasping in surprise. "Hey!" then, with an injured tone in his voice. "You don't play fair!"

Sulu snickered, straightening. "Since when have I ever played fair?"

"My father's been coaching you, hasn't he?" demanded Chekov with a sneer.

"Oh yah!" Sulu replied with enthusiasm, a twinkle brimming in his eyes. "I learn quick." "Well take that!" the younger man suddenly declared, lunging at Sulu. Sulu caught the sword with his foil and returned the attack with energy.

It hardly lasted a minute before Chekov had Sulu's foil immobilized. It wasn't fair by any means: Chekov's heavy military sabre against Sulu's delicate fencing foil, but it didn't matter to either of them. Sulu smiled enjoyably as the swords dropped. "So, what bringest thou down into my parlour?"

Chekov shrugged slightly. "I was bored, and what better thing to do when you're bored than to attack a lone botanist?"

Sulu smiled slightly. It wasn't true of course, Chekov hadn't come anywhere near being bored for the last three weeks. Almost unconsciously, he took in Chekov's weary features that seemed to be weighted down.

"How's your intruder?" he asked lightly.

"Still intruding," Chekov replied with a slight sigh. "Do you feel like dinner?"

Sulu frowned and seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. "No, actually I feel like Sulu."

Quickly he ducked Chekov's fist and bolted toward the door. "C'mon, my treat. Last one to the cafeteria gets caviar!"

Neither of them felt very energetic and not quite knowing why, they jogged all the way. And if it didn't increase Chekov's appetite, it increased Sulu's image of Chekov's appetite.

"I'll throw up if I eat all this!" Chekov protested.

"That'll be the day," Sulu muttered. "Here, wait. Take some of this."

"No, hey-stop it! I don't want any more. You're going to make me sick."

Sulu snorted incredulously, adding still more food to Chekov's tray. "The day you get sick from eating too much, I'll eat your boots. You know, some people are all heart, but you," he drawled, patting Chekov's middle, "are all stomach. I swear there's nothing there but one huge stomach: no liver, no kidneys, just a stomach! You're a bottomless pit. I'll bet you're the only human in existence that still uses your appendix as a spare stomach."

"That's not true," Chekov protested, his frown bordering dangerously on a pout.

Sulu laughed delightedly, and propelled his friend to a small table. "C'mon, you've got enough."

"For a couple of years," Chekov mumbled. "You know," he continued as they sat down. "I think you're just annoyed because I haven't eaten with you for two days. You piled all the food on my tray so I'll be stuck sitting here for a year."

"No," Sulu corrected. "It's that you haven't eaten period."

Chekov paused in arranging his utensils and looked at Sulu with wide eyes of disbelief. "Oh, come now. After that speech you just gave about my stomach, you think I went without food?"

"I mean edible food."

"What's edible?" Chekov asked, indicating the tray in front of him.

"Just eat," Sulu smiled.

They ate in silence for a long while, just feeling confortable in each others presence. It had been quite some time since the two friends had had an uninterrupted moment together, and without realizing it they sat and studied each other.

Chekov's appraisal had a light tone to it. He observed that Sulu was on one of his strict vegetarian sprees. The helmsman went from gorging on meat to preferring vegetables, then emerging as one of the galaxy's most dedicated vegetarians. Chekov spent several moments trying to decide if one of the vegetables actually had blue eyes.

Sulu's study of Chekov was much more silent and thoughtful. He again noted the wearied features that Chekov's face always bore when he was worried or in the midst of something. It was the look of an officer, a dedicated and resourceful man that was an asset to the military. It occurred to Sulu suddenly how terribly old Chekov looked-how much he had grown and yet, how terribly young he was to be in such a position.

It had been a good change, a maturing, but at the same time it sent a wash of remorseful sadness through Sulu. It was a long, saddened moment: that sudden moment when your own aging becomes evident to you. He suddenly remembered a lot of times he'd forgotten in the past and remembered, with a type of longing, a thoroughly delighted laughter that was somehow missing now.

They remained in silence for several minutes before Sulu spoke.

"Do you suppose everything's opposite across the Mirror?"

Chekov shrugged without really meaning to. "I don't know."

"I suppose Chekov and Sulu are bitter enemies." It took Sulu a long while to draw out the statement. Their eyes met warmly before Chekov replied.

"I can't imagine being enemies with you."

"But it's not us," Sulu maintained.

"No," Chekov drew out, "But from what I understand form Kirk, they're not enemies. They're more like cohorts in crime."

A smile swept swiftly over Sulu's face. "Some things aren't different."

"No," Chekov laughed, an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. The laugh suddenly deepened as he spoke again. "Do you remember the time we glued my father's shoes to the floor?"

"He almost killed us both," Sulu smiled, but the smile faded off his face until there remained only a lingering wistfulness. "Ya know, I've been thinking. What if we really did go through a door in the Mirror and what if, what if it's still there? What if it's a permanent door?"

A slight frown flickered over Chekov's features: it was something that had obviously already occurred to him. "We could form new alliances," he drew out after a moment, "and new enemies.

"And so much new territory to explore," Sulu added, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice. "Not really new: the same, only different. It will be facinating to go there."

"I don't know," Chekov said slowly. Suddenly, he shuddered visibly. He straightened and met Sulu's eyes with his, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want to meet myself."

The same terrible, cold shudder ran through Sulu. "No," he admitted, "Neither would I."

They resumed eating again until Sulu's delighted laughter brought Chekof's gaze up. He paused in mid-chew and let his eyes follow the Yeoman that had spurred Sulu's laughter. Swallowing the food, he turned back.

"What's the scoop?"

Sulu smiled devilishly, refusing to respond with anything but a horrible demonic glint in his eyes.

"Oh, common'," Chekov protested. "You're not going to tell me something about our youngest, most sweet, innocent yeoman?"

"I don't know how innocent she is."

"C'mon what is it?"

"I don't know if I should tell you," Sulu responded with a laugh.

Chekov kicked him under the table.

"Aw! Cut that out. Okay, okay." Sulu laughed, leaning closer to Chekov in the fashion of a conspirator. "Well, you know ever since you and Karen broke up she's been sort of mentioning why."

Chekov snorted, almost in annoyance. "It wasn't much of a break, I only went on three dates with her. And I know, I know. Last I heard I was intent on entering a Catholic seminary."

"Where'd you hear that?" Sulu asked with a frown of interest. "I heard it was a Shaker Community. Sins of the flesh and all that, you know."

"I know, so what's this got to do with Yeoman Roush?"

"Well," Sulu drawled. "She cornered me this morning and asked if she could ask me something concerning you. Of course I said yes: I'm always willing to tell people nasty things about you."

"So?" Chekov demanded in frustration.

"So, she asked me..." Sulu's voice trailed off as he dissolved into a peal of laughter. it was a very long moment before he managed to choke it out. "She said she knew that you must know about you-know, but, she wanted to know if, you know, you knew how to you-know."

Chekov froze, his eyes widening incredibly. "You're kidding!"

"No," Sulu laughed. "It's the God's honest truth. It was hysterical: she was so awkward. There she had the guts to ask me and she couldn't even say it. She just kept saying 'you know'."

"No," Chekov said shaking his head. "You're kidding."

"I'm not," Sulu laughed. "Even I couldn't make up something that good."

Chekov laughed delightedly after a moment, almost a giggle. "Well, what did you tell her?" "I told her that I hadn't had the personal opportunity to find out and she would have to ask someone else. But I did get the distinct impression," Sulu confided, "that if you didn't know she was perfectly willing to give you some personal instruction in the matter."

Chekov grinned devilishly, a peculiar light coming into his eyes and he drawled something in Russian.

Sulu gagged, the smile dropping off his face. "Oh, God. Must you be so graphic? I'm eating. What kind of sewer did you learn to talk in anyway?"

"Sewer?" Chekov asked, raising his eyebrows. "What happened to the gutter?"

"No," Sulu replied definitely. "your language is even too low for a gutter. In fact, it's more disgusting and lower than a sewer, but I can't think of anything quite that low."

Chekov shrugged. "I don't know what you're complaining about, you can't even understand me."

"That one I did. You said it once before and I asked your father to translate."

"What did he say?" Chekov smiled.

"Well, first he said that he was pleased you were teaching me such basic Russian vocabulary, then he muttered something about you being able to shock a sailor. I can't believe it: all these crewmen convinced you're ready to become a priest. You're so innocent: if they ever knew what kind of mouth you have..."

"They can't understand me," Chekov shrugged.

"Yah, well you'd better be careful," Sulu warned. "We do have a few more Russians on this ship."

"I know," Chekov replied. "I slipped up this morning with Ilya. I muttered something about a crewman's report on Deck 12 and I turned around and his face was white. Fortunately, he'd never quite heard those words used in quite that sequence before, so he just assumed he'd heard my mutter wrong. I'm all mouth, anyway," Chekov shrugged again. "And you're all eyes," he added, motioning toward the magazine tucked under Sulu's tray.

Sulu straightened defensively. "This is Hank's, I'm holding it for him."

"I bet."

Chekov laughed suddenly, a burst of devilish mischief in his eyes.

"What," he slowly drew out, "would a man be like that had the experience of my mouth, your eyes, and Kirk's body?"

A smile spread over Sulu's face. "Thoroughly disgusting."

They both dissolved into delighted laughter that lasted for several minutes. Then there was a crack from the apple Chekov bit into as he stood. Sulu glanced up quickly, studying Chekov's spotless tray with suspicion.

"You didn't have an apple!" he accused indignantly.

"No," Chekov shrugged. "But you did, and you've got enough vegetables there to keep you in the bathroom for a week. Take care, I've got work to do."

Sulu watched Chekov deposit the apple core in the waste recepticle and stride out, still not sure he hadn't been swindled out of something.

Chekov stretched slightly as he walked, trying to decide whether to take a shower at the same time he changed into a fresh uniform. He concluded he would quite possibly fall asleep if he didn't.

Tasha watched the corridor cautiously from an adjoining hall. She'd take no unneccessary chances, not on this ship. She ran her hand down the uniform. It was bulky, awkward and uncomfortable compared to her own. Still, it was more practical than many.

Chekov rounded the corner and she quickly ducked back into the hall. Deactivating her cloaking web, she stepped out unobrusively.

He hesitated, then lurched forward and caught her by the arm. She turned and looked at him in innocent curiosity.

He smiled slightly and shrugged in embarrassment. "Hello."

He played his part well, she thought. He actually just seemed interested in meeting her.

She returned the smile and nodded in interest. "Hello."

Dropping his arm, he began walking with her. "I haven't seen you before, you're new aboard ship."

"Yes," she admitted. "I haven't been here long."

He nodded silently, then motioned toward the stripe on her sleeve. "Lieutenant?"

"Yes," she replied. "And you?"

"Yes. Pavel Chekov, Chief of Security."

Raising her eyebrows, she laughed slightly. "I really manage to run into the big guys, don't I?"

He smiled. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm not wearing my Chief's feathers today."

She laughed slightly, but he nodded.

"I'm serious. The Defense Team bought them for me because they thought I should have the traditional trappings of my position."

"I'm Tasha," she replied to his gaze of curiosity. "I've been working in the labs." "Tasha?" he questioned, scrutinizing her as they paused.

"Yes," she answered. "But I'm not Russian."

She glanced momentarily at the name plate on the wall, but she didn't need to in order to know whose cabin they happened to pause in front of.

Chekov hesitated for a moment, trying to decide exactly how to word what he was going to say. In that brief moment her eyes met his and she replied to the unspoken question with a smile that flowed over from her lips into her eyes. He returned the smile, his perhaps a bit more gentle and cavalierish, and as he unlocked the door his arm snaked around her waist.

She moved closer to him as the door slid shut behind them and enveloped them in the blackness of the cabin. He reached for the light, but stopped as she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips clinging to his gently.

He dropped his hands to her waist. He meant to push her away, but for some reason didn't. She pulled away after a moment and gazed at him His eyes answered all her questions and satisfied her doubts.

She dropped her arms and eyes shyly. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I couldn't resist."

He fumbled for the light switch and, mercifully, found it. There was a mock frown of severity on his face as the light flooded the cabin.

"Well don't let it happen again," Chekov warned.

She stiffened. "I swear."

He broke the tense scene with a smile. "Have a seat," he suggested as he motioned to the couch. "Thank you."

As she did so, he tentatively made his way over to what could have been called a bar. He glanced back, more to note her position than to be polite.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Please," she replied appropriately, if not honestly.

"I hope you don't mind, I've only got Vodka."

That was a lie, she noted. Well concealed behind the Vodka bottles were bottles of Saki and expensive wine. Almost laughingly, she thought she should feel slighted that she wasn't considered worth opening a bottle of wine for.

He took a painful amount of time pouring the drinks. His lips clung stubbornly to the memory of the taste of hers. He wondered what she could possibly have in her lipstick, wondered if it even could have been her perfume. Amused at his own temporary weakness, he forgot the line of thought and slowed even more in his task. He knew well the layout of his own cabin, and, given her position and the fact that he'd be expected to sit beside her, he calculated the easiest way to call Security without alerting her.

He replaced the bottle pensively, before turning and moving toward the couch. Given the situation, his slow movments appeared soft and sensual. Tasha, however, saw them for the calculating coolness that they disguised.

So the stakes were laid. They were both merely actors in a play and this was a contest to see who would fulfill his role first.

He sank down on the couch beside her, and leaned forward to place her drink on the table. In doing so, he caught a whiff of her perfume which prompted him to edge close to her before settling with his arm resting on the couch behind her.

He let his eyes drift over her again, but found his masculinity interfering with what the Chief of Security was trying to do. He blinked purposefully.

"Where are you from" he asked quietly, taking a long draught of Vodka.

She sighed slightly and leaned forward to pick up her own drink. "Oh, from what seems like a thousand light years travel from here."

She hesitated in the motion, suddenly aware of how close her face had come to his when she leaned forward. She raised her eyes to him.

It was a look he could have read in absolute blackness and he studied her for a moment, more to enhance the moment than to think. It was exactly the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

He bent down and caught her mouth with his, letting his arm drop off the couch and encircle her shoulders. He dropped the glass as she moved against him and enfolded her in both arms. Tightening his clasp with his left arm, the other arm reached slowly toward the alert signal on the other side of her. She broke away from him just before his hand touched the button. Perhaps she had felt the movement and interpreted that he was attempting to move too fast. In the moment before the feeling of passion dissolved he thought it worth another try.

He moved toward her again, but stopped as their eyes met. They were depthless and haunting. The large ebony eyes seemed to go on forever, seemed to be full of every churning emotion imaginable, as if they were soaking in the atmosphere itself. He stared into them, absorbed and enchanted, wanting to crawl right into them to discover their very depths.

1 Episode: Mirror, Mirror has no stardate!

BI – CHAPTER 2 - 20


	3. Chapter 3

-CHAPTER 3-

He stirred uncomfortably and groaned. Experimentally, he stirred again. His eyes shot open suddenly and stared at the fabric in front of his face.

He sat bolt upright on the couch he'd fallen asleep on and swung his eyes around the empty cabin. HHHHH e lunged for the alert button.

"SHIT!" he swore enthusiastically.

He tore through the section of unruly hair with his comb angrily. He considered swearing again. His eyes shifted to the other side of the mirror as Sulu stumbled into the bathroom from the adjoining cabin and yawned sleepily.

"Morning." Chekov commented, trying a more gentle approach with the piece of hair.

"Go ahead," Sulu mumbled. "Don't invite me to your parties. See if I care, even if it is at six o'clock in the morning on my day off."

Chekov dropped the comb and stared at himself in the mirror, trying to decide if his hair would pass the way it was. It wouldn't.

"It's the Security Team," he bit out.

"I'm not prejudiced."

Chekov glanced over at him and wondered if he was awake yet. He leaned back on the vanity and opened his eyes, so he must have been.

"What is it?"

"An intruder," Chekov bit back.

"God, don't shoot me: I belong here, remember?" Sulu sighed in an apparent attempt to wake himself up. "I was going to come over last night, but I saw you go in with some girl. Who was she?"

"The intruder."

Sulu let out a low whistle. "She can come over and intrude on me any time."

"Tell me about it," Chekov said angrily. "Or better yet, tell Kirk about it because I sure as hell don't feel like explaining this to him." He threw the comb so it smashed against the mirror.

"Hey!" Sulu warned, and grabbed his arm. It was an amazingly fierce grip for someone who was supposed to be half asleep, but it served as a warning signal that Chekov's temper was coming dangerously close to its boiling point. It also served, in more ways than one, to steady it.

"Take it easy," Sulu coaxed after a long moment.

Chekov drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Yah." He went to reach for the comb again, but Sulu tightened the grip on his arm. Unceremoniously, he spit on his hand and wiped it over Chekov's hair. The piece stayed in place.

"I don't know why I bothered washing it," Chekov muttered, turning to leave. He hesitated at the door and glanced back. "Thanks."

"Ehh-," Sulu drew out. "I got plenty of spit, besides, if you get an ulcer I'm the one who's going to have to listen to you complain about your diet."

"People with tempers don't get ulcers," Chekov smiled.

"No, with a temper like yours they get a new cabin-the brig. I had enough trouble getting used to you."

"You need new pajamas," Chekov said critically as he turned to leave again.

"Yah, I know," Sulu muttered. "I'll steal them from you when you're on duty today."

Chekov snickered as the door slid shut behind him.

"Perez, where's Nordel?"

"He was in the bedroom with Finnegan, Sir."

Chekov nodded, but then paused and glanced back at him with a curious glint in his eye.

Perez laughed slightly and shrugged. "Sorry, Sir. I didn't mean it to sound like that. They're conducting a search, as per your orders."

"Yes," Chekov drew out, walking away.

"Sir! Could you sign this, Sir?"

Chekov stopped to scan over the report, but stood with it in his hand a long moment before finishing it. The voices from the bedroom behind him drifted outward and he listened to them.

"God, it's beautiful! Gorgeous. Can he play it?"

"Like a dream, but not in front of anyone. We have sing alongs at defense parties so he'll play. He'll play then because he thinks none of us is listening to him."

"I bet it's hand painted. It must be worth a fortune."

"More than that. You so much as put a scratch on it and it'll mean your life."

Damn, Chekov thought, he hadn't put it away before going on duty yesterday. Pushing the clipboard back at the crewman, he turned into the bedroom.

"Don't exaggerate, Nordel. If getting a scratch on it is going to save someone's life, I'd gladly tolerate one, but for anything less..." he let his voice trail off for impact and carefully slid the accordian in its case.

Nordel watched him uncomfortably, trying to figure out how much the Lieutenant had heard of their previous conversation. He couldn't discern anything from his expression and decided they must be safe.

Chekov placed the accordian in its case beside the bed and swooped up his stack of papers. "Nordel, after they're done with my cabin I want Watch A to relieve last nights watch. Everyone's on watch and watch-everyone-until the intruder's found. Last nights watch gets eight hours sleep before assuming watch and watch."

"Yes, Sir.

"I want hourly reports and section reports," he added as he left.  
"Yes, Sir." Inwardly, Nordel groaned and hoped the intruder was found soon. On watch and watch was a murderous schedule for any amount of time. Four hours on duty and four hours off, repeated over and over again. There was barely enough time to fall asleep before you had to get up again.

Chekov strode into the hall swiftly.

"Mr. Chekov."

He hesitated in midstep and turned in curiosity back toward Spock, who approached him. "May I speak with you a moment, Lieutenant?"

Chekov nodded and entered a lounge. "Certainly, Mr. Spock. Is there something wrong?" he asked as the door slid closed behind the Vulcan.

"No, I was merely curious as to your extensive use of the computer last night."

Chekov frowned. "Computer?"

"Yes," he said, presenting the Lieutenant with a clipboard. "You used the computer a gread deal last night. I was merely curious as to your purpose. Perhaps I could be of some assistance?"

Shaking his head, Chekov pushed the clipboard back at the First Officer without even glancing at it. "I didn't use the computer last night, Sir."

Spock indicated the clipboard. "You used..."

"Mr. Spock. With all due respect, Sir." Chekov shrugged. "The storm's distorted everything. It must have been someone else."

Spock's face tightened fractionally. "My information is accurate. If it was someone else using the computer, then they were using it in your cabin."

Kirk strolled into the lounge and hesitated as he heard Chekov's voice.

"Mr. Spock," Chekov said deliberately. "I assure you, no one..." he froze in midsentence.

Kirk noticed the look of anger on Chekov's face and stepped forward. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

"Captain, we've got an intruder."

Kirk stiffened and glared at Chekov. "Where?" he demanded, subdued anger in his voice. "I don't know, Sir. I met that woman again last night, and according to Mr. Spock she may have used my computer."

"I want to know for sure. Spock..."

"Yes, Sir," Spock nodded in silent confirmation and left.

Kirk swung back to Chekov. "What about this intruder?"

"I met her in the hall last night. I took her to my cabin so I could call Security without alarming her. Captain..." There was a painful pause. Chekov was well aware of being in a defensive position. "I fell asleep."

"When?" Kirk demanded.

"I don't know," Chekov confessed thickly.

"Chekov, you're Chief of Security."

"Yes, Sir," Chekov bit out, then sighed. "Captain, I just don't know what happened. I can remember it, but it doesn't seem real!" he insisted. "I can remember talking to her, I can even remember what we talked about, but it's all fuzzy: like a dream. Sir, that just wasn't me."

Kirk straightened slightly. "Are you sure you didn't dream the entire thing?"

"Yes, Sir. I can remember very clearly walking into my cabin, pouring the drinks and sitting down next to her, and then...Captain, it wasn't a dream. The glasses were on the table this morning.

"Drugged perhaps," Kirk said studying him with concern.

Chekov nodded. "I've had Security make an entire sweep of my cabin, with special proiroity to the glasses and their contents."

"I want the whole ship on Red Alert, distribute phasers to all personel. That woman is still aboard," Kirk said evenly. "And I want to know where and HOW."

Chekov straightened imperceptibly, a shadow of guilty defensiveness tracing over his face. "Believe me Sir, so do I. If there's a leak in our new seecruity system, we'll find it. All security details have been put on Red Alert and are presently conducting a priority one search."

There was no mention of what would happen if it was found the intruder came aboard because of a slip up on the part of the Security Team. There would be no mention of that posisibility because the mute fury that was beginning to gleam in the Lieutenant's eyes would take months for the team to work off. And they openly feared the consequences a major mistake would bring from the Chief.

"I'll monitor the search from the bridge, with you permission Captain," he concluded.

"After you've paid a visit to sickbay."

Chekov froze and met Kirk's eyes with an even gaze. "Sir?"

"If you've been drugged or are hallucinating...no one else has reported the intruder, have they?"

"No, Sir," Chekov responded dryly.

"It's logically the next step in security. All possibilities must be examined and a quick check up will rule out many of them."

Chekov nodded slightly after a long moment. Despite his utter abhorrence for doctors, the line of reasoning Kirk had taken couldn't be avoided.

"Yes, Sir."

Kirk smiled slightly in understanding. "It'll only take a minute to find any trace of drugs. Report to the bridge immediately following."

"Yes, Sir."

BI – CHAPTER 3 - 5


	4. Chapter 4

-CHAPTER 4-

There was a telepath in the room, a person whose telepathic abilities quite possibly equaled Spock's own. He could not see them but could sense their presence: feel the substance of thought emitting outward. Whoever it was had not disciplined their ability the way the Vulcan had, and seemed to be usisng only a minimal among the discipline that they did have.

Spock's mind reached out tenuously, searching the other's thoughts for identity. As with a net with holes too big for the prey, his mind swept up the stray thoughts and let them drift back out. The interest in his companion was tempered by caution. Only stray thoughts were caught and mind contact directly avoided so that the stranger would not be aware that his thoughts were being read. Oddly, the discipline that was lacking in the telepathic abilities was present and amplified within the person's mind itself.

It was a brilliantly keen mind that was disciplined well and utilized so fully that the Vulcan suspected-no-knew at once that the person was close to his intellectual equal, and that was something in itself. The Commander's mind burned with an insatiable curiosity to delve into the very depths of the other: to discover and examine every piece of information he could possibly obtain. Ironically, he found himself flooded with information because of the torrent of fatigue beneath the shield of discipline. It was an unbearable, all encompassing fatigue that would have been crippling to a normal human. Whoever this person was, they had suppressed it to the very depths of the mind. It was only because of its presence that he had gained access to that depth of the mind at all.

The correlating parallels that formed were facinating. A staunch code of honor prevailed, strengthened by a unifying philosophy that was centuries old and ingrained in the person's heritage.

'Ancients.' The word flowed from both their minds in an echoing unison. The history of both their heritages in some instances was so close they were almost one.

It would indeed be interesting, and perhaps even profitable, to meet this person, he thought silently, his eyes still focused on the computer readout screen. The person was intelligent, knew that his presence would be detected, but had sought him out regardless of that fact. There was an open challenge presented that radiated strength and courage. The stranger was prepared to talk: ready to fight. Either way the confrontation was evident and he sensed that whoever it was wished to get it over with now.

Finally, the lab technician stood up to leave and Spock asked him to lock the door behind him. With a frown of curiosity, he nodded and did as the Commander requested.

Spock leaned back and looked over at the other side of the room. "Please be seated."

The person froze. "Why should I?" she said evenly.

Spock raised his eyebrows, both at the feminine voice and the question.

He stood. "Conversation would be more easily accomplished if I could see you."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"On the contrary, I believe our immediate future rests on what we have to say to each other."

Tasha studied him critically before lowering her hand to the badge on her sash. She materialized, her right hand casually resting on her hip.

"A cloaking web," he mused. "ingenious."

"Observant today, aren't we, Captain Spock?" she said wryly, her black eyes sliding over his slim form. "A new uniform."

"The Fleet seems to think they are more practical," he commented, merely as a pretense to keep her talking.

"But hardly as flamboyant. You've shaved your beard."

"I never had one," he replied.

She smiled and stretched her shoulders luxuriously. "I liked you better with a beard and the old uniform," she said, seeming to ignore his comment. She was studying him critically, watching every movement, weighing every word. Her suspicions took solid form and found solid doubts.

Spock returned the critical study with much the same suspicions. He met her dark eyes with his as his mind reached out. He should know this woman. He sensed it from the moment he'd felt her presence, but her image brought no memories.

He tensed as the blurred images and snatches of memories, not his own flashed across his mind. The two of them: the woman and he talking, working together, then fighting. But it hadn't been him. Spock took a step toward her.

Her hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger. 'Try it,' she thought angrily. 'Just try it: that will be one mind meld you'll never forget. I guarantee it.'

He paused and nodded slightly to her. She hesitated, then suddenly dove for the door. Freezing as the setting on a Federation phaser clicked into place she slowly turned back toward him. Spock moved forward, and, after a moment motioned toward the door.

Obediently she turned to move out the door, but suddenly swung full cirle, her foot coming up and smashing against the phaser in the Vulcan's hand. It flew in a spiraled arc, slamming into the far wall of the room.

He hesitated a moment before swinging to her with calculating swiftness. Spock caught her wrist, twisting it behind her. She lunged forward and spun in a tumblesault, slipping out of his grasp. He spun after her and they wrestled viciously.

She was even more skilled than he'd suspected. So skilled that he could not place himself in a position to apply a nerve pinch and he found himself barely managing to prevent her from drawing her dagger. That was his only advantage. It was far easier to prevent her from drawing it than it would be to disarm her, once drawn, he knew.

He dove after her again in mounting annoyance. She kept slipping out of his grasp as if she had no substance and the pursuit had ceased to be challenging.

In a desperate lunge, he caught hold of her and clutched her tightly. He froze suddenly. he was not used to wrestling with women and the obvious physical differences blazed forth as his arm tightened across her chest.

He dropped his hand from around her uncomfortably. She turned swiftly, and his eyes swept over the mask of non-emotion. Friends, workers...Yes Spock had received those images through the link, but he had not suspected a romance: yet it was there.

"I'm sorry." he said.

"Keep your hands off me, Kaiyon!" she spat out viciously.

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. The images had cleared, the differences between himself and the Spock he saw becoming concrete. He took time to study her again, appreciative of the knowledge of where she'd come from and the possibilites it provided.

Her ebony eyes were emotionless, but Spock felt her absorbing and weighing his actions. Suddenly, a gleaming smile swept over her tan features and she began laughing delightedly. Tasha turned and, swooping down to pick up the phaser, she tossed it to him.

Spock caught it, eyebrows raised.

She shook her head in delight. "I'm sorry, Spock. I had to be sure."

Sweeping over to the console, she curled into a chair. "Commander, isn't it?"

Spock fingered the phaser before nodding. "Yes, who are you?"

The smile slid from her face as she eyed him curiously. "Surely you know?"

"I know you are from a Mirror Universe. However, since I have never met your counterpart, I do not know who you are."

"Well then, " she said , impulsively swinging to her feet, inclining her head gracefully and planting her hands on her hips. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name..." she paused long enough to swagger with her feet apart. "Is Tasha Kainear…Arikara," she added after a moment. "I'm an assassin, a thief, a traitor- a spy."

"Indeed. And the uniform?"

"This? A hobby. The Kaicamdrean Federation Starfleet. I'm a Kainan. It's a rank equal to your Captain, but without a command. Helps pass the time. Who's white?" she suddenly asked.

Spock glanced at the chessboard she had indicated. "The Captain."

"My Kirk prefers poker," Tasha smiled, sinking into one of the chairs.

"So does mine."

"He's in quite a predicament."

Spock nodded and sat down stiffly in the other chair. "It would appear so."

Tasha smiled luxuriously and leaned forward on her elbow. "Appearances can be deceiving." Her fingers shot forward and she moved one of the pieces and leaned back, still smiling.

The frown burrowed deeply into Spock's forehead.

"Checkmate," she echoed quietly. "Sp-my Spock cheats. The purpose of the game is to win. It's only logical to accomplish that any possible way."

"But it's not honorable," Spock said darkly.

Tasha glanced up quickly. She smiled slightly after a long moment. "I'm not used to hearing those words spoken by someone else."

"There are many cultures that value honor above death. In our universe," he added after a moment, "It is know as the Klingon Empire. How did you evolve into the Kaicamdrean Federation?"

"Odd to indicate possession of the unpossessible, isn't it?"

"Yes," Spock replied. "But for clarity purposes, it is not a question of yours or my universe-they exist. Do you play?" he asked resetting the chessboard.

"Occasionally," she answered smoothly, making the first move.

As Spock and Tasha moved toward the door of the Captain's quarters, her eyes flickered over the side wall. The image of the letters burned in her eyes: James T. Kirk. A snide smile played on her lips. It seemed almost a final revenge for the other Kirk, and if he could, she knew he'd be gloating.

Spock directed her into the cabin and locked the door as it closed behind them. Once again, he was aware of the utter fatigue radiating from her.

"Captain," he said. "We have a guest."

"Spock," Kirk questioned, striding into the room. "What..." He hesitated as he saw her, his eyes widening slightly, his breath seeping out slowly and imperceptibly. So, this was Chekov's intruder. He knew what the Lieutenant had not told him immediately as his eyes traveled slowly over her, coming to rest on her face. She was beautiful, absolutely stunning. And she knew it.

She was by far one of the most beautiful women Kirk had ever seen and he suspected she'd be even more so if her coal black hair wasn't swept into a loose, thick braid running across the top of her head. The harsh uniform1 didn't suit her beauty, but it fit her personality, no doubt, Kirk thought bitterly. And her eyes-her eyes were solid black, with the haunting depthlessness of an animal's eyes. It was the first thing you noticed about her, and the first thing you avoided because they didn't seem to be capable of any human emotion. Yes, she was beautiful, too beautiful, and doubtlessly dangerous if pressed. He didn't trust her.

She froze solid, her face coldly emotionless. Spock glanced over at her sharply and took an unconscious step away from her in shock as the images flashed through his mind. They were blurred in confusion, but he felt and saw them. Captain James T. Kirk...vicious, animal-like, in a different uniform, yet still James T. Kirk. The woman...cold, ruthless, skilled to an expertise. And a knife: a large, shining, bloodstained knife. He tried to tear his mind away, but they were emotions he still hadn't learned to deal with fully, not even since he admitted he needed emotions: the emotions of horror and terror.

The last image blared forth in shocking clarity. The body of Captain James T. Kirk, not wounded, not stabbed, but brutally muitilated; hacked to pieces with blood pouring out of it in torrents. His face wearing a look of surprise and defeat. He was without a doubt, dead.2

The woman beside him had done it. She'd killed Kirk. Not without a struggle, but to a definite victory. Kirk stared at the clear emotion on Spock's face, wondering what could cause such open horror and rage.

Spock straightened, a mask of non-emotion sliding over his features. "Our guest is from the Mirror Universe. She killed that Kirk."

"How unfortunate."

Tasha frowned at Kirk critically.

"Then Chekov was right," Kirk said. "We went into the other universe and brought her out with us."

"Apparently."

"But who is she?" Kirk demanded turning to her.

Tasha smiled "Little Bo Peep."

"She apparently has a vast knowlege of human culture," Spock commented.

Kirk nodded, his eyes never leaving the Kainan. "Welcome aboard the _Enterprise_ he said evenly.

Tasha ignored his proffered hand. "No need, Captain. I've been here three days."

The Captain's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" he demanded as his hand dropped suddenly to his side.

Tasha smiled sweetly, declining to answer.

"Kainan Tasha Kainear Arikara. First officer aboard the _I.S.C. Kytaerin_, Captain." Spock provided.

Kirk raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "Quite an honor Ma'am," he said, inclining his head slightly.

"Most assuredly not as honored as I am to meet a dead man."

Kirk glanced at Spock, who raised an eyebrow speculatively. "Impertinent," the Captain stated. "It's what's to be expected of a Mirror Universe." He turned toward the intercom, but froze suddenly. The dagger whizzed past his head and slammed into the wall beside him. A millimeter closer and it would have taken off his ear. A centimeter closer, it would have split his skull.

"Don't call Security," she drew out quietly.

He met her eyes evenly. "I give the orders on this ship. I'll call Security if I please."

She threw out her arm. The dagger quivered, then jerked free and flew back into her awaiting palm. She slid it leisurely back into its sheathe.

"Unique," Kirk commented.

"Yes," she said and smiled. "Please do call Security, Captain. I haven't seen Pavel all day."

Kirk dropped his hand from the intercom and moved toward her with an even gaze. "The dagger."

Her hand went to it instinctively. She glanced at it, then looked at the Captain and shook her head. "I won't use it."

Kirk dropped his hand, studying her. "No," he said wryly. "Only when my back is turned."

"Captain, she is bound by a code of honor, much like that of the Vulcan's. There is no honor in stabbing a man in the back, Sir," Spock said quietly.

"Unless it's Kirk," Tasha muttered under her breath.

Kirk glared at her. "The dagger."

Tasha studied him in silence for a moment before shrugging. "If you insist, Captain. " She unsheathed the dagger leisurely, casually flipping it upward to catch it by the tip.

Kirk's hand clasped the hilt, drawing it away from her. Suddenly, he hesitated and glanced at her quickly. She met his eyes with a dark gaze that was openly gloating as the metal hilt seered into his flesh. Slowly, the Captain turned and gently placed the dagger on the edge of the desk, unobtrusively clasping his hand closed again to conceal the scorched, blistered flesh.

She shrugged, a slight smile playing on her lips. "You insisted, Captain."

"Yes," he drew out darkly between clenched teeth.

Spock raised one eybrow. "The weapon is apparently equipped with a security device that radiates heat when handled by someone other than the owner."

"Apparently," Kirk echoed as he paced past her toward the door. "Spock if she's our 'friend', exactly what has she been doing on this ship for the past three days?"

"Try to imagine yourself, Captain. You're in the middle of an ion storm, your ship is falling apart, you're facing a Klingon ship and you turn to find your mother ship gone. How would you feel if the only way to save your life was to beam abaord the Klingon ship?"

"What have you been doing for three days?" he repeated evenly, ignoring her previous comments.

"I'm sorry," Tasha responded bitterly. "I didn't have any orders to report to you."

Kirk spun back to her angrily. "Guests usually make known their presence!" he shouted back, glancing at the resheathed dagger on her sash.

"I didn't know it was a Mirror Universe!" she retorted angrily.

"Whether you knew it or not, you've been on this ship unauthorized for three days."

"Well, forgive me,"Tasha drew out mockingly. "did you actually expect me to walk up to you and say: Hello! I'm a spy from the Mirror Universe, would you mind helping me get back?"3

"A SPY!?"

Tasha rolled her eyes and swung toward the door. "He's not any different. I don't even know why I bothered..."

Spock caught her arm, preventing her from continuing further. "Despite my distaste for shouting matches, I cannot allow you to leave."

"Spock," Tasha said quietly. "you don't actually expect me to reason with him? And he's a pacer besides!"

The Vulcan's grip tightened on her arm. She shuddered slightly and glanced down at it. "Please release me Spock. I don't like being manhandled."

After a moment, he complied. She turned back to Kirk as the fatigue washed upward.

"Spock," Kirk asked. "Did you know she was a spy?"

"I had been made aware of her profession."

"Captain," Tasha spat out. "I'm as usual, baffled by your failure to understand that spies work for themselves. And if I didn't, there would still be nothing here I'd be interested in."

"No?" Kirk demanded, stepping up to within inches of her. "Star Fleet strength, codes, defensive positions, weapons, government secrets..."

"For WHAT?" Tasha cut in.

"To come across the Mirror and invade, perhaps."

"Invade?" Tasha laughed. "Why would we want to take over your pitiful Federation?"

"You tell me," Kirk demanded.

"Captain, I...!" she hesitated with a sudden gasp for air. Wavering slightly as the room began to pitch and dive, the blackness began seeping around her.

"Captain!" Spock lunged past him, but not fast enough to catch Tasha as she collapsed on the floor.

Kirk punched the intercom irritably. " Mr. Chekov?"

"Yes, Sir," came the reply after a moment.

"There's been a new development. Report to sickbay immediately. Kirk out."

Turning back, he watched as Spock lifted her easily into his arms. That was no lie. She was, in fact, unconscious. He stared at her for a moment. There were quite a few races that could make themselves pass out at will, quite a few.

"Mr. Spock," he said evenly after a moment. "Escort our prisoner to sickbay."

Spock met his gaze for a moment before nodding. He had expected nothing less from Kirk.

"I'm going to despise that woman," Kirk muttered as Spock turned to leave.

"With all due respect, Sir," Spock said quietly. "I believe you already do."

As the door closed silently behind the Vulcan, he slowly unclasped his hand, gritting his teeth against the intense pain. What could have been a prospective, advantagious meeting had turned into a heated confrontation. Kirk reprimanded himself again. Whatever information there might have been to gain from the Mirror Universe, he'd conveniently lost. He'd attempted to give her the benefit of the doubt and failed.

Perhaps it was not destined to be. An alliance might prove useless across the Mirror and if the woman was exemplatory of her race,...the hell with it. He doubted there had to be a good for every evil. Without further hesitation, he strode out the doors toward sickbay, favoring the burned hand.

Kirk strode into the examining room, his right hand still tightly clenched. Pausing by the examination table, he glanced at both Spock and McCoy before turning his eyes to study the still form."What is she, Bones?"

"Kaicamdrean, Jim. The readings are perfect. No evidence of reconstructive surgery."

Kirk nodded. "What about the uniform, Spock?"

"Not on record, but facinating. The uniform is laced with concealed equipment. The sash is a type of cloaking web that achieves invisibility for the person wearing it. Most of the equipment is unfamiliar to me: I can only theorize its use."

"I want it analyzed."

"I..." Spock hesitated and glanced up at the door as his sensitive hearing picked up the hurried strides of the Chief of Security. Following Spock's example, Kirk looked up just as Chekov strode in.

"Captain, you..." he stopped suddenly in mid-sentence as his eyes fell on the woman's still form. After a moment he approached the table. "The development?" he asked, staring down at her..

"Yes."

"Who is she?"

"Tasha Kainear Arikara," Spock supplied. "A spy from the Klingon Empire in the Mirror Universe. Your theory was correct. She followed us through the Mirror, thinking us the _I.S.S._ _Enterprise_."

Chekov frowned slightly, his eyes sliding over Kirk. They rested on the clutched right hand before meeting the Captain's gaze with perturbed anger. Kirk had learned long ago that Chekov was extremely sensitive to other people's pain and intolerant of martyrdom for so much as a blister.

"I want it analyzed."

Kirk nodded imperceptibley, acknowledging to the Lieutenant that he'd have it taken care of as Spock completed the woman's background.

"Where'd you find her?" Chekov asked, mentally calculating the number of hours his team had been vainly searching the ship.

The Captain smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the annoyance in the Lieutenant's voice. "I didn't, Spock did."

Chekov's eyes turned to the Science Officer in expectance.

"It was she who located me. Our inability to detect her was due to a cloaking web she was wearing."

Nodding, Chekov relaxed and turned his attention back to studying Tasha.

"Spock, we were discussing an analyzation of the equipment."

"Yes, Sir. I would be most willing to cooperate if you would make a suggestion as how to proceed. All the equipment on the Kainan has the same security device as the dagger."

"Yes," Kirk muttered, tightening his hand. He glanced at Chekov. "It radiated extreme heat when anyone but the owner touches it. I want it neutralized."

Chekov snorted slightly, meeting Kirk's eyes. "Ours is not to question why," he muttered, then audibly: "Sir, I could work on it, but we've been trying to develop that very device for years. We have to know how it works before we can stop it from working. We have to stop it from working to get to it and find out how it works, Sir."

Kirk nodded. "What's wrong with her, Bones?"

"She's collapsed from exhaustion."

Frowning, Kirk stepped out of the way as the orderlies moved her to a regular bed. "That means that she won't be up for weeks."

Chapel shook her head. "No, Captain. She'll be up in a few hours. It seems when they sleep, they sleep."

"What do you mean?"

"It's similar to the Vulcan healing process. They concentrate everything on total rest. We dream, toss and turn-they rest."

"Then why," Kirk demanded, "Is she suffering from exhaustion?"

"Apparently she hasn't slept for some time," Spock said.

"They also have a healing process similar to Vulcans," McCoy commented. "She's only recently been in some type of nasty fight. There are still a number of bruises and healing wounds present."

Kirk nodded. "Dr. Chapel, let me know as soon as she's up. Chekov, Spock, assemble Team A in my quarters for a briefing. Bones, may I see you in your office for a moment?"

Kirk hesitated as Chekov passed him on his way out the door. "Ours is but to do or die," he muttered. "Mr. Chekov, do me a favor: ask our 'guest' for a piece of her equipment, don't steal it."

1 Why would she change back into her uniform or did I miss something?

2 8712.29—would Tasha have been so graphic—after all—the honor of one dead even if they were the enemy

3(In Tasha's handwriting) Change to make BI—KK/T meet cabin with Spk.—T. tells Kirk when meets- She's an information specialist." Spk looks at her to KK "She's a spy."

T.-"…I'm an information and activities specialist, Captain."

Spock's dark eyes shifted to Tasha breifely, then back to his Captain. "Commander Arikara is a Spy, Sir."

"That's what I said." She asserted indignantly.

What Tasha always says she is—think Feran came up with it—what listed as in Computer banks: First Officer and this and no one knows what the hell it means.—Yes, she's really active and keeps up with the latest gossip and reads a lot—an active intellectualist with 'A' tendancies.

KK drew a breath half-forming a retort that he never voice upon catching an od glint in the Vulcan's eyes.

BI – CHAPTER 4 - 9


End file.
